Sand
by fearwrites
Summary: Perhaps she was never his to begin with. [This one-shot is E/C, with some side R/C. Trigger Warning: Suicide. Dark.]


They had married just three months after the incident at the Opera House. Christine had wept as she said her vows to him, making everyone else's eyes fill with tears with her. Their wedding and reception had been planned meticulously by Raoul's sister Camille, being incredibly grand and more to please his family than the couple. Everything, of course, went exactly as she had envisioned- the food, the guests, even handling the media coverage, troubling herself with that personally throughout the celebration. Only Raoul noticed how Christine would often glance off into the distance as if distracted for just a moment, before turning back to him. Her small smile satisfied him as he grinned back- it was time for a new beginning. He kissed the rings on her left hand tenderly.

Their honeymoon was by the sea, in a summer home his brother bought and gave to him as wedding gift. Raoul could only describe their week there as peaceful, spending it just the two of them with daily picnics on the beach, in their bed, out in the nearby town. He was sure Christine appreciated the domestic bliss there, as the previous months had been rough for her, but at that moment, nothing mattered to either of them. Her new husband could only hope this sense of wellness would last.

It was after their first two months of marriage that Christine mysteriously regained a spring in her step, her laughter came and went quickly as it had before the Ghost's appearance. Perhaps it was her going out on her own into town once a week, leaving after supper and coming back in a few hours just before dinner, that had increased her happiness, and Raoul felt relieved to see her spirit come back to life. His only problem, though, was when it came down to their nights together; whenever he felt like bedding her, it was as if she was less willing to do so, like she began to treat it even more like her duty as his wife. Though she never refused him, it seemed as if she had become colder in that sense, less participative and more complying to his own wishes and not her own. Christine never treated him differently or voiced any problems in any other sense, and so he brushed off his own concerns. He never asked what she did in those hours on her own.

* * *

It had become routine to her. Every Friday, after eating, she would ask the De Chagny's Driver to drive her into town, leaving her blocks before the lesser-crowded market she was particularly fond of, as she wished to walk as well. He would be waiting in that same place in three hours, as the sun set and it was time for his mistress to head back to the Estate. Christine would reach the market quickly, buying snacks and little trinkets she rather liked from the sellers and stands with her own money- this time, a ribbon for her maid's lovely young daughter, apples she found particularly appetizing; all within half an hour though, as by then, an equally-hooded figure would be waiting for her in the nearest back alley.

She needn't say anything as they quietly walked together to the ruined Opera House and into it through a side door, then through its scorched rooms and behind a mirror into a place none but them knew of. There, in the depth of the building's basements, the man would row across the lake with her, docking the boat safely before they both shed their cloaks and left them there as they stepped on land. Christine, looking him in the eye, would also slip off the two rings on her finger and leave them atop her cloak. She would then launch herself onto her masked lover and his kiss, safe to be pleasured and adoringly loved by him in the dark, away from her husband, from her title, from everything. Just for a few hours each week, he was hers and she was his, already uncaring and deep within their sin.

Deep into the emotions they shared with such fervor, the ones that would never be seen in the light of day.

* * *

Weeks after, Raoul entered the dining room and was shocked to see his wife already there, having expected to wait for her as he did every Friday. Her smile hardened just slightly as he asked her reasons not to have gone into town as he worked.

"I am unusually tired today, since I haven't been sleeping well." He patted her hand in sympathy as their dinner was served. She was sadder than what had become her usual, like she had been at the very start of their matrimony, but she spoke with him pleasantly nonetheless, her brow only furrowing as he asked her to follow him into his office to speak of something serious, in private.

"It has come to my attention," he began gently. "That the police have finally found the Phantom."

Her reaction was immediate confusion, followed by skepticism. "What?"

"It is true, Christine. They had been inspecting the Populaire every morning for any sign of him, and they found something this last Saturday. The mirror in your dressing room, my dear; it had swung open like a door, an alternative way into his lair that hadn't been destroyed by him."

Her blood ran cold, but she put up an act of interest, nodding for him to continue though her hands trembled and her heart pounded into her ears. He sighed, kneeling in front of her chair, a hand on top of hers on the arm rest.

"They lost two men through the traps he set up beforehand, but eventually three of them got to his... home. An alarm rung and put them all on edge, especially a newer one who had started his job the week before. He shot impulsively towards the first flicker of movement he saw, without consulting his seniors." Christine felt light-headed as Raoul smiled in sad sympathy. "The bullet got him. After he broke the other's neck with his rope, the recruit ran away for back-up. They found him dead, bled out on the floor, clutching a ring and his wound. I am so sorry, my darling."

"No, it can't be." She damned herself for the way her voice shook. "E- the Phantom, he was a master of illusion. He could have easily faked his death."

"They found his body, dear," he repeated slowly. "He is gone."

"What... of his body...? Was he given proper burial?" She felt numb.

"No one has claimed his remains, after all, he has no family."

"Do it, Raoul," she whispered suddenly. "For my sake. Arrange for him to be buried in Perros, just- let me see him first."

He was skeptical, until his wife clutched his shoulders and _begged_. "Please, please, Raoul. Do it for me, no matter how much you loathe him. If he is truly dead, he deserves this much, I'll never forgive myself otherwise."

"Alright," he relented quickly. He gathered her into his embrace, kissing her face in an attempt to soothe her. "I will do it, for you." As soon as he released her, Christine dashed out of the room. Raoul sighed and leaned on the desk behind him, pinching the bridge of his nose.

She ignored everyone's stares as she ran and ran through and out of the house. Outside, in the most secluded spot of the gardens, she fell to her knees and cried with the deepest pain she had ever felt. It was she who had not closed the mirror-door, as they had argued last Friday during their secret reunion of the week and she had left in tears, only bothering to check the side door as she left. She hadn't even bothered to wait for him today. It was she who had insisted on seeing him every week, who had fallen into their adulterous romance with all her heart and soul, all the while putting both of them in jeopardy; she would have been shunned by society for taking him as a lover, but he would have to pay with his life. Dear God, she had killed her love, her Angel, all because of her petty rage, weak heart, and carelessness. She screamed and screamed at the top of her lungs until her vocal chords gave out. Christine didn't care for her singing anymore- a part of her had just been ripped away, never to come back. His name, her dearest secret, was all she mouthed before fainting in grief.

* * *

Raoul kept his promise and the very next day they were off to Perros. Everything felt wrong from the moment she stepped with her husband into the funeral home, and she nearly fainted again when she saw it truly was him, pale and still in front of her. How she wished she could take off his mask and see his face once more. Had it not been a week ago that he had lain next to her, holding her as their blissful high faded? She had never felt more at home than when she was in his arms below the Opera House. This was worse than a nightmare she would never wake up from. She bent down to kiss his forehead after asking for a moment of privacy, silently signing for the men in the room to leave; she had truly damaged her throat yesterday, and it burnt to even try to speak. Not that she wanted to do so anymore- her voice was his. It would be fitting for him to take it along with her heart and she was left with nothing but emptiness.

* * *

Christine deeply mourned the loss of her ex-tutor, and it drove Raoul mad. She had not spoken for a month now, ever since one of the horse stall workers had carried her into the mansion, crying for help for the Vicomtesse as he had heard her yell in agony and found her unconscious. All communication from her was based in nods, sometimes hand signs, sometimes a twitch of her lips in the emptiest vessel of a smile Raoul had ever seen. He couldn't help but feel frustrated, even jealous; she acted as if she was a grieving widow, though he was very much alive and well, attempting to get her to heal her split heart.

Secretly, he arranged for three days to get away from it all, two weeks after _his_ burial. It would be at their summer home, where they had had their honeymoon, in an attempt to get his wife back in the calm of the shore. She had smiled softly as he had told her, woven her fingers through his as he escorted her to their carriage, but, though the Doctor had said her throat was very much healed, no sound came for her.

 _"Was she close to this man, if you don't mind the intrusion,_ monsieur le vicomte _?" Doctor Blanc had asked the previous day, unaware of said man's true identity. He gritted his teeth as he answered, glancing at his sleeping wife, peaceful through the drought the medic had administered._

 _"She used to be his student. Though he committed... many mistakes that harmed her, it seemed as if she could never stop being kind and forgiving. His death has hit her much harder than I could have ever expected, Doctor."_

 _"I believe she has become mute from her grief. The mind is a very powerful entity, monsieur, and it has been known to block a person's senses when going through extreme conditions. I ask of you, for your wife's sake, to be patient, care for her and slowly try to get her to talk, but never force her. It could make her trauma worsen."_

 _"I will. Thank you, Doctor."_

They took long walks along the beach, hand-in-hand, Raoul relishing the feelings of the place, not realizing how much he had missed them. He softly promised his wife that he'd be sure to take them there more often, then assured her how much he loved her. She smiled genuinely and mouthed a small 'thank you.' Sometimes she'd ask for a moment on her own and he would grant it, staying far behind though keeping her in his sight. All she ever did in those quiet moments was what he assumed was praying, as Christine's head was bowed and she would glance off into the distance for a moment before turning and walking towards him. He couldn't quite tell if she was improving, but he was glad nonetheless to note how much she had calmed by their second day.

It was their last night there when Raoul awoke abruptly, shivering. Sitting up slowly, he realized their bedroom door was open, though he distinctly remembered closing it behind them as he always did. Even the sheets beside him felt cold, as he noticed now that his wife wasn't there, in her place a small patch of paper in her handwriting. He shot up from the bed, calling her name desperately as he raced out of the small house after reading it.

 _I'm sorry, Raoul. I wish you happiness._

He saw her bare footprints, leading up to the beach. He felt bile rising up his throat as he noticed they ended at the shore, disappearing slowly with the tide now wetting his feet. Raoul then noticed something shine in the moonlight, in the sand beneath him. Her necklace, the one he had given her to celebrate one month of marriage. He looked for her all night, notifying the police of his wife's weak mental state and how it was very possible that she had run off on her own because of it. They looked everywhere, in town, along the long shore, on other's properties. With a heavy heart, Raoul agreed to let them search the waters.

The search party found a woman in a remote part of the beach the next day. The distraught man had been called in to identify the body, successfully doing so immediately. Her cause of death was marked as a suicide and the case was closed; she had drowned herself in the middle of the night as her unknowing husband slept. She was wearing her white nightgown, and, to his distress, not two, but three rings. His engagement and marriage rings and the one _he_ had given her once; no one had noticed when she took it from his body before his funeral service, having hidden it among her other jewelry even from her husband. It was his brother who had the strength to notify the Girys, the only family Christine had left, and the rest of the De Chagnys.

Christine was buried next to her father, in the same cemetery where she had begged him to inter the Phantom after his own death. In sorrow, her husband stayed behind to leave roses for her after everyone else had left the service. He had her buried the same way she had been found: wearing three rings on her left hand.

"Perhaps now, in death, you are were you are meant to be, Little Lotte. With him." His hand touched the cold gravestone, engraved with the opening notes of the aria that had been her debut to the masses. "You always did belong to your Angel of Music, didn't you? I was a fool to think otherwise. I'm sorry it ended this way, but I will be forever thankful for the love you always showed me though your heart ached for another. Goodbye, my wife."

He never had the strength to visit her grave ever again.

* * *

 **A/N: SZ here again, with a new username. I don't think I've ever written anything as dark and depressing as this is. "Sand" was a muse that hit me like a brick and I simply had to get it out- don't worry, the chapter fic (which I am still working on, I promise, I'm just a very slow writer when there is no immediate inspiration like with this one) is nowhere near as angsty as this is. Poor Raoul. Reviews and favorites keep me going, so be sure to leave them if you liked this. My AO3 is AnaSofia1963 (pseudonym: fearsmoke), where I'll also be posting this and my chapter fic when it's done. There's also two Hamilton one-shots there, both Lams, if you're into that. Love you all.**

 **Edit: Thanks to an amazing reviewer (Starwatcher2018) I was able to correct some mistakes that totally flew over my head. Props to them for pointing them out and being incredibly kind about it.**


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